by J. D. Mason
He moaned, pulled her tighter against him and settled down, back to sleep. She smiled because the gesture was endearing and special. Nick was special, and Terri was going to have to rise to the occasion if she wanted to be special with him. She briefly thought of Luther. Sure, she had a crush on the man. She’d have to be dead not to. But no. This wasn’t about Luther. Terri was on a search for her elusive soul, the one that didn’t obsess over something she couldn’t have.
She could have Nick, and… maybe love Nick. She could have romance with Nick. Marriage with Nick? Wow! Marriage? Where’d that come from?
Wake up, Terri. Wake up and live, really live. Try it. Try being brand new with brand new thoughts, ideas, and courage. Try being open to the possibilities of Nick Hunt and see what happens.
Better Left Unsaid
Thick and shapely Cleo slithered into the room, freshly showered and sitting on the side of the bed next to Luther.
“You know I’m jealous.” She leaned down and kissed him. “Right?”
Luther sank dramatically into the thick pillows and sighed, recalling his days on the road and hitting the road at the crack of dawn’s ass.
She laughed and playfully slapped his chest. “I can’t stand you.”
“This is what retirement looks like.”
She stared down at him. “Looks damn good. That’s for sure.” She kissed him again, then crawled on top of him, the thin sheet separating the two of them. “You know how long I’ve been wanting you?”
Cleo had never made a secret of that fact when they toured together. Luther fought long and hard, keeping her at bay despite appearances and gossip.
“Worth the wait,” she murmured, grazing a manicured nail down his cheek. “I truly am sorry for your loss. I know how much you loved Ava, but I gotta say,” she chuckled. “I have enjoyed my stop here, immensely.”
No one believed that Luther had been faithful to his wife all those years on the road. Admittedly, there were some moments when he came a hair-width away from crossing that line, but he never did.
He sighed. “You ain’t the only one, sugah,” he said, staring deep into her eyes. “You still with Russ?”
Cleo rolled her eyes, pushed off Luther and sat back on the side of the bed. “You know I ain’t never leaving that fool.”
Cleo had been with Russ for as long as Luther had known her, which had to have been more than thirty years. Nobody believed there really was a Russ at first because they never saw him, only heard about Cleo complaining about ‘That fool, Russ’ for hours at a time on the tour bus.
“That damn fool, Russ,” she exclaimed, all kinds of pissed, coming out of a restaurant on Boise once, after using the pay phone to call him. “Done burned down my damn house.”
“That fool, Russ, smashed my damn car.”
“That fool, Russ, said a curse word to my momma then got mad when she hit him upside the head with a baseball bat.”
Years passed before Luther finally laid eyes on That Fool Russ backstage during intermission at a Boys to Men concert. Russ had Cleo pressed up against the wall with his tongue so far down her throat it was a wonder she didn’t choke to death. Cleo clawed him like a predator, keeping him in place until the stage manager told her it was time for her to get her ass back out on stage. She hurried back to one of the dressing rooms, reapplied her lipstick and rushed past Luther with a sly glance and grin.
“That Russ?” he asked.
“That’s my baby,” she said with the kind of affection he didn’t know she was capable of.
But what happened on the road, stayed on the road. Luther suspected that whatever happened on Russ’ end when Cleo was touring, happened on Russ’ end. Their relationship had withstood the test of more than thirty years. So, who was Luther to judge?
“Who you seeing now?” she asked, putting on her earrings.
“No one.”
Cleo rolled over next to him. “You serious? Ain’t nobody got you?”
Luther shook his head. “Ain’t nobody got me, baby.”
“Ava passed, what? Four, five years ago?”
“Something like that.”
“You been single all that time?”
Luther didn’t answer.
“Honey,” she said, raising up on her elbow. “Why, Luther? She’s been gone long enough.”
“Says who?” he asked, facing her.
What was long enough? Luther had missed most of his marriage to the woman he loved more than anything. Almost. It was that part, the almost, that tortured him.
“Your boy is handsome,” she said, changing the subject.
Luther nodded slightly. “He looks like his mother.”
“And you. Maybe more her, but I saw you in him, too.” She pressed a hand to his cheek. “Saw how proud he looked watching you play, too.”
Luther noticed.
“Pretty date he had with him.”
Yeah. She was pretty. Luther thought about how good the two of them looked together. Nick was happy.
“You ain’t a granddaddy yet,” she asked. “Are you?”
He laughed, “Lord, no.”
“Well, it’s coming.” Cleo got up and started getting dressed. “So, you need to get ready.”
The very thought made him feel old.
“What time y’all heading out?” he asked.
“Less than an hour.” Cleo slipped on a loose-fitting maxi dress and flip flops, pulled a ball cap onto her damp hair, and then started shoving her things into a small duffle bag. On stage, the woman was pure diva, but in the trenches, Cleo was a road warrior, capable of being locked, loaded, and packed in a matter of minutes.
“You forgot to put on panties?” he asked, smirking.
“I didn’t forget nothing,” she said, slipping a purse over her shoulder and kissing him one last time on her way out. “Get yourself something to eat before you leave. The club is paying for it.”
“Be good, Cleo,” he called after her.
“Define good.” She winked, closing the door behind her.
Luther eventually ordered room service and paid for it out of his own pocket. He sat on the balcony, enjoying his meal and his coffee, looking down at the streets of the Quarter slowly starting to come to life again. New Orleans was a little more than two hours away from Devastation and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d come here.
Playing last night resuscitated Luther, ignited his whole soul. Damn, it felt good being up on that stage, fusing with his guitar, drawing in chords and melodies. God! He missed playing. For years, he felt more at home on stage than he did in his own house. Last night had been his return to the mecca and it felt damn good.
Luther let himself die with Ava. Guilt buried him a long time ago. Until last night, he was fine with that. Until last night, he’d forgotten that he was still here and that there was some part of him left that relished life.
He hadn’t been there for Ava when she needed him. Luther had been punishing himself for what happened to her long before she died, though.
“Lupus ain’t cheap,” she’d told him time and time again, making light of her illness.
Ava was light in the darkness, even when it was her own. She went out of her way to downplay her symptoms for as long as she could. Luther let her because it gave him the excuse he needed to play.
“That’s what insurance is for, Ava. I can come home.”
“And be miserable with me?”
“But I’d be with you and you need me.”
“How many times have we fought about this, Luther?” she asked. “How many times has it left us nearly bankrupt?”
“It’s just fuckin’ money,” he argued.
“And Nick wants to go to college.”
“He can go, Ava. Other kids do it.”
“And end up paying back money until they’re old and gray. I don’t want that for him.”
She was strange in her priorities. She convinced Luther to buy into the nonsense that he needed to keep working, keep playing for
them to keep living the way they did.
Was she all that convincing? Or did he really not need a reasonable argument to be convinced to keep playing, keep traveling, leaving his sick wife and kid alone in a fancy house, while he lived his dream?
A memory crept up on him. One of those he never cared to recall, but some of them left him no choice. It was 2001 and Luther was in Toronto, getting ready to go on with Blackstreet.
“Luther!” One of the managers shouted, shoving a phone at him. “They say it’s an emergency.”
Dread filled his gut like a balloon. “Yeah?” he shouted over the noise.
Luther could barely hear the person on the other end of the phone, so he ducked into a small equipment closet. “This is Luther.”
“It’s—Nick,” the boy hiccupped through tears. “Mom is…”
In the hospital? Or worse? Luther fought like hell to keep his thoughts from going to that dark place.
“What, Nick?”
“Luther! Anybody seen Hunt? He needs to be on that stage.”
“Nick?” Luther yelled.
“She’s back in the hospital, Luther,” Ava’s mother said, replacing Nick on the phone. “You’ll need to get home as soon as you can.”
“Luther Hunt! Where the fuck is his ass?”
He had no idea how long he stood in that closet with the phone to his ear, listening to nothing. The woman had hung up without saying goodbye.
Some things were automatic, robotic. Luther played that night. Played like a man possessed, focusing so hard on the damn music, to keep his thoughts off of her and the fact that she—and Nick, needed him home. Days later, Luther called to say he was on his way to Devastation.
“It’s all right, Dad,” Nick told him. The boy had to have been thirteen, maybe fourteen at the time. “She’s home.”
Memories like that kept Luther grounded, reminding him of why his son resented him and why the two of them would never have that bond most fathers have with their sons. They both had made peace with it.
An hour after finishing the last of his coffee, Luther dressed to leave and head home, realizing he’d repented long enough. Ava was gone, and what he did or didn’t do right was gone with her. He still loved music; still loved playing. Luther loved the feel of a woman’s body and the comfort that came with it.
He and Nick had reached an unspoken agreement. His son would always have his own ideas about the kind of man Luther was, had been, is... but Nick had come to terms with those ideas and maybe it was time for Luther to stop letting another man make him feel like shit.
Nick was living his life.
Luther needed to live his.
Circle In The Sand
“The theater community here in Devastation has always been vibrant,” Mavis Renfrow explained, using delicate hands with long, thin fingers and perfectly manicured nails painted yellow.
“And very respected,” Lucy Madison chimed in with a proud smile and bright eyes.
“Oh, yes,” Mavis continued. “Why, some of our productions here have won high praise and have even been reviewed in Baton Rouge and New Orleans newspapers.”
“Oh, wow,” Terri managed to say, eyebrows raised and trying to look as impressed as the two ladies sitting across from her obviously were.
The old, musty smelling theater flourished with character but could do with a facelift. Heavy, wine colored velvet drapes, pinned back on opposites sides of the small stage, matched faded, velvet covered seating, probably dating back to the forties or fifties. Peeling gold paint on oversized columns and railings needed to be touched up, and new carpet wouldn’t hurt. From the outside, this place, located in the heart of downtown Devastation, didn’t look like much. Inside, it definitely was over the top.
“Mavis and I are the fifth owners of this establishment,” Lucy told Terri. “We’ve owned it longer than anyone, except the first owners.”
“Who are long dead, of course,” Mavis laughed.
“Of course,” Terri smiled.
“Died in forty-one, during the fire,” Lucy added.
“Fire?” Terri asked, feigning interest.
“Oh yes,” Mavis added. “A terrible fire broke out in the cellar, and Tom and Wilma Benoit both died of smoke inhalation.”
“Here? In the theater.”
“Only their spirits remain,” both women said in creepy unison, and with straight faces.
Terri waited for the punchline or for them to laugh or something. They didn’t.
Goodness gracious. Terri still couldn’t believe that she’d agreed to be a part of this. But she’d run into Mavis and Lucy twice since the first time she’d met them a few months ago, and each time they asked if she’d be able to spare some time to be a part of their “little” production.
Deep down, she wasn’t interested in theater. Terri was through with acting, but she was a resident in this town. A resident hiding out in her little cottage, minding her own business. Terri was part of a community now, and the idea of becoming that crazy, old, washed up actress closed up in the house on Dupelo, who nobody ever saw, wasn’t appealing.
“How many people can this place hold?” she asked.
“Seventy-five,” Lucy said, glancing at Mavis.
“We usually fill it to capacity,” Mavis added. “Especially on opening and closing nights of the season.”
“Season?” Terri probed, surprised that this little town had a whole theater season.
“Yes,” both women said in unison.
Mavis elaborated, “One month a year we open for submissions, that come from as far away as Houston. They send us scripts and entry fees, and we decide who makes the cut.”
“We’re very selective,” Lucy added, raising a sophisticated brow. “Do you think you’d be interested and have time to contribute to our little endeavor?”
“To read through stage plays?” Terri asked, trying not to sound as pensive as that knot in her stomach felt.
The two women glanced at each other. “It’s just that, there are so many, and well…”
“Someone with your expertise could weed through the shitty stories without hardly batting an eye,” Mavis elaborated.
“How many are we talking about?”
Lucy shrugged. “This year, I think we got about a hundred.”
“A hundred?”
“At least,” Mavis answered. “Of those, a dozen were accepted and performed here during the three-month season.”
Two pair of eyes locked on Terri, waiting for her response.
“Sure, I could read a few,” she shrugged, emphasizing the word few.
“Is that all?” Lucy asked, expressionless. “A few?”
She wasn’t interested in reading through scripts. Especially bad ones, which she suspected most of the submissions would be.
“How many did you want me to read?” she asked with caution.
Mavis grinned, “More than a few. If you can spare the time.”
“She’s retired, Mavis,” Lucy muttered to her friend, cutting her eyes at Terri. “Of course, she has time.”
Terri was just about to mildly protest the woman’s bold presumption, when they were suddenly interrupted.
“Ladies.”
Luther Hunt appeared out of thin air like a beautiful apparition, towering over the three women and pulling up a chair to join their group.
Terri hadn’t seen him since the show in New Orleans a few weeks ago.
Mavis clasped her hands together, “Luther, we’re so glad you could make it.”
“Yes,” Lucy agreed, her eyes sparkling.
“Apologies for being late.” He bent and kissed each woman on the check, then glanced at Terri. “What’d I miss?”
Butterflies filled her stomach, but then Terri composed herself and reminded herself that she was, happily, dating the man’s son.
“Terri has agreed to read through the play submissions,” Lucy chimed in.
“Cool,” he said, nodding.
“Some of the submissions,” T
erri quickly added, shooting her gaze back at Lucy. “A few. Time permitting.”
“When can you start scoring The Devil’s Run?” Mavis asked Luther.
“I’m working on it.”
Mavis giggled and lightly touched his hand. “I know it’ll be marvelous.”
“The Devil’s Run?” Terri asked.
The two women glanced at each other, then looked back at her.
“It’s our contribution,” Lucy explained. “We wrote it.”
“And it’s the finale,” Mavis added, proudly.
“Folks will be talking about it for years to come,” he assured them with a wink.
Terri sensed that his declaration was not necessarily a compliment.
“What’s it about?” Terri dared to ask.
Lucy took a deep breath and suddenly turned contemplative. “You know, the church used to sponsor the theater festival,” she began.
Mavis nodded, “Many, many years ago, before we bought the theater.”
“Our vision has always been to make the festival as inclusive as possible,” Lucy continued. “Showcasing not only black and white productions, but—”
“Homosexuals,” Mavis interrupted. “LGBTQ, transgender, transsexual, everything.”
“Non-binary,” Lucy added.
“Well…wow,” Terri responded.
“The Devil’s Run is a burlesque number,” Mavis offered.
“Think Josephine Baker meets James Brown,” Lucy said, her eyes wide with excitement.
Terri tried to picture it, but couldn’t. She looked at Luther, sitting there looking absolutely amused. “You’re writing the music for The Devil’s Run?”
“Oh, absolutely. It’s my honor.”
If the ladies noted the hint of sarcasm in his response, they pretended not to.
“I’ll be playing the role of Tonya Boy,” Mavis blurted out, gleefully. “A woman pretending to be a man, pretending to be a woman.”
